Primaris Psyker
by Pixo
Summary: The Warp is a resource, as dangerous as it is potential. But of what the men and women of the Imperium who tap into that resource. They are certainly dangerous, but to whom?
1. Primary

**Primary**

**::::**

The troopers dropped down along walls, slumping tiredly. A sergeant came by, squatted and whispered, "We're settling down here for a few hours. I'll call you when you're due for watch," he moved on.

The older soldiers shifted packs and utility belts to get comfortable, eager to get as much sleep as possible. Snores, coughs and farts soon echoed through the room. The distance boom of explosions and roar of bombers overhead rattled the old building, making it difficult to sleep for those who had yet to develop a thick-skin of fatalism formed from years of hard-grueling labor in the Emperor's name. As a result many of the young troopers sat up, chatting softly, some even daring to smoke.

Opello Younger stretched his leg out beside him. It ached painfully, though, he felt lucky to be alive. A week earlier most of his platoon died when the building they were in collapsed, all but a handful survived. Most died in the fall or were crushed by falling debris, miraculously Younger only broke his shin bone. Once the bones were wired together and the leg tightly wrapped in a mesh-cast, he was sent back to the line. Without a unit to go back to, he was added to the general replacement pool and eventually ended joining up with a platoon from H-Company of the Asher Rifles Regiment.

He rubbed his leg for a while and stared blankly into space. He did not know any of these men, and was to tired and achy to try and make conversation anyway. His eyes soon grew heavy and he began to nod off.

"Corporal Younger, come here," called the captain. Younger looked up and saw the officer gesturing to him. He rose awkwardly, stiffly from where he was sitting, picked up his lasrifle and limped over to his commander. The captain was with another man. An unpleasant looking man; big, bald, jowly, ugly, mean little eyes, his thick flak vest black as pitch. He had a large Aquila was tattooed on his skull. The two-headed eagle's head where above his eyes, the wings swept down over his cheeks to his chin, the talons rested at the start of his neck.

"Sir?" Younger enquired.

The captain turned to him with a face like thunder, "How's your leg, son?"

"It hurts, sir. But I'll keep up."

The captain nodded, "Good to know. I've got a task for you. Overseer Lombard needs to return to the Compound for more minders."

"Want me to go with him, sir?" Younger asked, not really understanding what was being said, but assuming the question regarding his leg was a test.

"No," the captain said seriously and looked at the overseer, letting the man finish the sentence for him.

"I need you to watch over my charges," his accent was thick, he was not Asher born.

Younger looked between the two men, unsure of the request.

"Son, you look confused?"

"Charges, sir?"

The overseer nodded his head, took Younger by the elbow and said, "Come, come."

The corporal looked at his officer, the Captain just nodded and turned away.

**::::**

Younger was led through a room were Asher soldiers were settling down, grunting and complaining like soldiers everywhere. In their grey-camo kits they looked like shadows in the twilight-lit room. Lombard lead him through to another room, this one was empty. Lombard pushed on through this one, opening a door and pulling Younger through it with him. The room was lit by a single lumo-touch sat on the floor in the middle of the room. The room was small, the air heavy, sluggish and stank of sweat and smoke and cold.

Eight figures lurked about the room. They all wore blue robes in various states of disrepair and filth. Most were hunched and all were gnarled, they clung onto dark wood staves with all their strength. Skull plugs and other dermal implants decorated their heads, necks and arms. All wore thick metal collars. Their eyes, blood-shot and terrible, turned when they entered. There was something wrong with this men, something terribly wrong.

Lombard pushed Younger into the room and shoved the door closed, "Oris," he called out.

One of the men grunted and faced Lombard, "Overseer."

He was tall and thin, his face gaunt and hands gnarled. He was bald, but lacked skull-plugs. He had large, knowing, blue eyes.

"This soldier watch over you, I return to the compound to secure more minders."

"As you wish, Overseer," said the tall man and turned back to the others. Younger noticed they were all muttering softly. He swore under his breath, pressed his back against the wall and shivered.

**::::**

"Trooper," Lombard said, "take this." He pressed something into his hands.

Younger looked down and saw it was a keypad of sorts. There were twenty one buttons; seven had small green lights next to them, one had a yellow light, while thirteen had no lights at all. Lombard continued, "You press button, you activate collar. Like in Penal legions, yes?"

Younger shrugged.

Lombard frowned nastily, "You have no problems with them. They sleep now. Oris look out for them while I'm gone. I be back … by day break. They try anything funny, you push bottom, eh! Boom! One, maybe two, that'll keep the rest in order."

Younger just stared at Lombard, dumbfounded.

"All else fail, you shot them with your rifle. That'll kill them good." As if to demonstrate the point he helpfully patted the pistol holstered at his hip.

"You're kidding me, right?"

Lombard looked confused and angry, "No, no kidding. No problem at all. Oh, also, no talking to them. Alright?"

"No, it's not alright, they're … they're _pskyers_!" Younger said staring at the huddled men, Imperial Sanctioned Psykers.

Opello Younger had been raised to understand that psykers were … not right. They were men, of a sorts, and they were cursed with gifts that only the Emperor, in his eternal glory, knew how to use. On Asher, when a citizen showed signs of the psykers curse they were taken to the Adeptus Astra Telepathic, the only body of psykers on the planet. In their dome citadel the green robed Astropaths would harbor the cursed souls until the Blackships arrived. They were never seen or heard from again. Younger hissed, "You want me to … to baby-sit God-Emperor damned _psykers?!"_

The overseer grabbed the guardsmen harshly by the collar and thrust his face at Younger, "You shut your mouth, little boy! They no damned! You do as I say, or I hurt you. Yes?"

Younger tried to free his arm but Lombard's grip was like a vice, he shouted "Get off me!"

The overseer gripped all the harder and without warning punched the guardsmen in the jaw. Younger stumbled away and Lombard shoved at him, knocking him to the ground. The overseer wrestled furiously with the soldier for a few moments, his boot knocking the lumo-torch aside, then punched young man half a dozen times in the face and neck. His blows were designed for maximum pain with minimal evidence.

"Stop, stop stop!" Younger shouted holding up his hands protectively over his face.

"You do as I say?" hiss Lombard from on top of him.

"Yes, yes … fine, get off me."

Lombard stood up and Younger got a look at the man. The overseer's face was flushed red, he was panting with pleasure. His eyes were lit with a sick madness that only a life time of sadism could bring. The violent man spat on the ground and left without another word.

**::::**

"Hand up?" asked a voice.

Younger glanced around and saw the tall, thin psyker, Oris, standing nearby.

"No," Younger replied with haste and scrambled to his hands and knees. He stumbled when he put weight on his injured leg and fell forward. He was caught before he tumbled, "Easy," Oris said softly.

Younger jumped like a cat with its tail on fire, throwing himself away and slamming into the wall. He wiped himself down and made retching noises, "Don't touch me, don't touch me…" he repeated.

"As you wish," Oris said, leaning over to put right the lumo-torch. When he did he looked back briefly at the other psykers, then back to Younger, "Your spat with Lombard has upset them."

"What?" asked Younger. He was sick to his stomach having been touched by a cursed-one.

"They are distressed. They will need to be calmed down before they can sleep."

Younger just stared at the man.

"Sit, rest, and calm your mind. They can feel your unease and it makes them worry. A worried psyker is a … well, dangerous psyker."

At the mention of danger Younger suddenly noticed that the room was significantly colder. He could see his breathe. He glanced at the psykers, they were all staring at him, muttering and clutching their staves and each other. The air was heavy with invisible tension. He was suddenly struck with great, uncontrollable fear. Liquid churned in his guts and he thought he might lose control of his bowels. He desperately looked around for the keypad unit.

"Looking for this?" Oris asked, as if reading his mind. He held up the unit.

"Give it to me," Younger begged, gasping for breath.

Oris took two steps forward and held out the unit, Younger tentatively reached out for it and just as he was going to grab it, Oris withdrew it slowly and said, "You've no need to fear us."

"Just give me the thing … please."

Oris held it out again, and Younger snatched it away from him, holding it tight and close. Like a protective talisman. The psyker turned and gather the others, like a mother hen collecting her wayward chicks.

**::::**

Younger watched Oris soothe the others. He collected his staff - long and made of dark psyko-reactive wood it was topped with a golden two-headed eagle clutching an all-eye. The eight got into a tight huddle and Oris held the staff in the center. Each psyker placed a hand on the staff and lowered their head. Oris began to hum a soft tune and slowly the tension in the air eased and the temperature of the room returned to normal. That tune struck accord in Younger's memory. He knew that melody. But from where?

The psyker managed to get the others relaxed and before long, they laid down to sleep. Oris himself slumped down and leaned against a wall, staring into space.

"I am sorry," he said quietly.

Younger looked around, hands tightening on the keypad, "What?!"

"Sorry, I am. For your appointment to watch over us. It is unfair to ask the untested to handle the likes of us."

Younger nodded in complete agreement, "Very true. Emm, should I even be talking to you?"

Oris shrugged.

After a long moment of silence, Younger asked the question that had been eating away at his mind, "Oris? May I call you that?"

"I am called Oculus Oris Rex. You may Oris, if you wish."

"Opello Younger, of Asher," by automatic reflex he introduced himself; before he remembered he was talking to a _psyker_! After he caught his breathe he asked his question, "That tune you were humming, what is it?"

"A tune I learned as a babe."

"Where are you from, I thought I recognized it."

"Nercomunda."

Younger grinned and snapped his fingers, "Ah ha! Now it makes sense. Asher was settled by a Necromundian sponsored colony ship … eh, nigh a thousand years ago now."

Oris reached into his robes and pulled out a long knife. Silver and sharp. He passed it to Younger. The trooper sensitively took the blade and held it up to the light, on one side of the hilt was a large "N" on the other an "I" – _Necromunda_ and _Imperator_.

"Asher? I've never heard of it. Where is it?" Oris asked softly.

"Spinward way in the Segmentum Tempestus, not far from the Veiled Region," Younger replied while looking at the splendid workmenship of the blade.

"Ah, that makes you a long way from home, Mr. Younger."

"Same to you, Oris," Younger laughed, "Segmentum Pacificus isn't anywhere near Necromunda."

"'tis true, very true," Oris said and became quiet; his face slowly became an emotionless mask. He said softly, "To true perhaps."

He stared at Oris. The thin, bald man had a sad face, and eyes heavy with worry. If Younger had not known him for what he was, Oris could have been a village priest or wandering wise man or an old farm hand bent from decades of toil. Younger coughed awkwardly, and passed the knife back, "You know, I've never … ummm … met a Psyker before."

Oris looked up, "Is that so?"

"Yeah. What's … ummm … it like?"

"Like?" after a long moment of silence Oris said, "what's it like being you?"

Younger thought for a moment then shrugged. He said, "Eh, like normal, I guess." Then he smiled briefly, Oris's reply had been clever. Designed to make him answer the question he had asked.

Oris nodded. "Yes, Normal. A lot of my kind … hate themselves. I do not self-loath. I was found with the Powers and was taken by the Blackships. I was sent to the Adeptus Psykana … the school for those with powers. I'm truly gifted you see. My powers are far beyond theirs," he nodded at the resting psykers, "and therefore I was gifted the chance to be a Primaris. Normally, my kind are feed to the Astronomican."

Younger looked confused, "Feed to the Astronomican?"

"Nevermind that, you shouldn't burden yourself with such knowledge," Oris said. "When you wake up, Mr. Younger, you interpret the world with your five senses. I, on the other hand, use those same five as mere building blocks for how I assimilate the universe around me."

Younger looked at him askew, "I don't get it."

Oris laughed gently, "That is a good thing. For if you did, the Inquisition would have to kill you … for your own sake!"

**::::**

Oris stood up quickly and glared long and hard at the wall. He grunted, "Up Opello, up."

Younger blinked his eyes, not realizing he had fallen asleep. By instinct his hands searched desperately around for the detonator unit. He found it beside his leg. He held it one hand and struggled to stand up with the other, "What? What?"

"The Archenemy approaches, let us speak with your officer." Oris stood very close to him, his blue eyes locked onto his. Younger could see the black pupils swirling.

Younger took a wary step back.

"Quickly, take me to your officer. You must."

Younger reluctantly lead Oris to his captain. As they walked through the rooms where men slept, the bodies would shiver briefly, or let out a sudden cough or groan as Oris passed them.

The officers had taken a corner of the building for themselves, finding whatever they could to make resting spots that resembled bird nests.

Younger approached the duty-soldier, "I need to see the Captain."

"He's asleep. Come back later."

Younger looked back at Oris and shrugged; the pskyer stepped pass him, "Soldier. I wish to speak with your Captain. Fetch him for me, at once." His demeanor and approach rang like a nobleman speaking to a stableboy.

The Asher soldier bristled, "Forget you, no one sees the Cap. You hearing me psy-filth?"

Oris leaned forward, bringing his eyes close and level with the soldier's. Locked in a staring contest Oris bared his teeth for a brief moment, and the soldier shuddered suddenly. "I'll get the Cap," he said in a monotone voice.

He turned and walked off quickly. Younger noticed a wet patch running down his trousers. "What did you do to him?" he asked.

Oris smiled slightly, "I reminded his mind of its natural instinct for self-preservation."

Younger shook his head, "You know, Oris … _that's_ why no one likes Psykers."

Oris laughed, an honest, genuine chuckle, "I gather fewer truer statements have ever been made."

**::::**

Younger saw the captain walking towards him, the duty-soldier at his side looking fearful. The captain was grim man, hard without much of sense of humor. He ran his company with that same temperament. Younger swallowed as the man stomped up to him.

"Corporal Younger, has the God-Emperor stepped off the Golden Throne?"

"Hmm, not that I know of, sir."

"Hmm," the captain nodded, "then please tell me, why you're bothering me when I left just that _specific_ instruction with Mr. Salter here. Whom, by the way, looks like he'll be spending the rest of this war at Commissar Caliler's side. Where he can be reminded of the value of following orders."

The captain coughed, "Now please, do tell."

"Sir, Primaris Pskyer Rex told me he needed to speak with you. Urgent, sir."

The captain sucked his teeth, "Primaris Pskyer? More like Primaris Freak, Younger. Don't you forget that." He turned to face the tall psyker, "I have no time for abominations, speak your piece quickly."

If Oris had taken offense he did not show it, "Captain, the Archenemy approaches."

"Really? How would you know?"

"I can hear them moving, their mere maligned presence bulges the Warp, moreover, I can taste warp-pulses. They are bringing warp-mages with them. We're in great danger here. The others confirmed it for me," he said, pointed unerroringly back to where the clutch of psykers would be, "They heard the Archenemy as well."

"You can hear them? Hah! You're a warp-freak, I bet you're in cahoots with them, aren't you? Freak-boy?" The captain jabbed a finger at Oris.

"I am not in … _cahoots_ … with the enemy of Mankind."

The captain frowned, "Likely story. I bet you want to go outside and play with your little scum-friends, eh? Maybe let them in here, so they can kill us all? Defile our bodies?"

"Captain please!" Younger said.

"Shut up!" he bellowed at Younger, spraying him with spit, "I can _guarantee_ you my sentries will have seen any movement! I … we … don't need your kind. Go back to your little box and don't ever speak to me again."

Oris stood quietly, staring at the officer. "As you wish," he said and turned and left without another word. The captain spat on the ground, made the symbol of the Aquila, turned and left the other way. Younger stood around, looking both way not sure of what to do. He eventually trotted after the psyker.

::::

When Younger reached the back room, Oris had roused the other psykers. He said, "Oris, I'm sorry about the Captain … that was uncalled for."

"It matters not," he replied unusually brusque, "What matters now is that you need to stand ready, Mr. Younger. The hand of war approaches and its grip is unkind."

"What are we going to do?" Younger asked.

"Tell me when it happens."

"When what happens?"

"When the scouts start dying."

"Oh. Right."


	2. Lay of Hands

**Lay of Hands**

**::::**

The animals had become sick. The reason was unknown, some said it was will of the God-Emperor, others blamed Xeno influence. A few even claimed, controversially, that one of the underground laser defense batteries had fallen into ruin, leaking poisonous chemicals into the waterways, those people were taken away by red-robed members of the Mechanicus, never to be seen again. In the deep hills shuttles were seen coming and going for months.

The taurine, big hairy six-legged cattle particular to the world, suffered greatly. A year passed, then two. Only when the tithe began to fall did the authority respond to the hills' call for aid. They sent administrators to catalogue and inventory, enforcers to take away the best of the living specimens, and finally priests to bless the poor, remaining herds.

The hills became a blighted place, shunned by all who knew better.

The village of Hor sat on the slope of the great hills. Once a thriving cattle town, now the village was a degraded collection of shambles.

A man stood in the center of the town, turning slowly, looking at the building and homes. There was no one about; the only sound was the wind nudging a rusty, swinging sign. His eyes fell onto the village tavern. Hitching his shoulder bag higher he limped towards the decayed building.

It was gloomy inside, gloomy and dirty. Half a dozen men sat at tables, nursing beers and staring morosely at the walls. The tavernkeep sat on a stool, head on the bar, cushioned by his arms.

The man dropped his bag aside the bar and sat, quietly.

The tavernkeep slowly looked around at him, raised an eyebrow, "Eh?"

The man nodded pleasantly.

The keeper frowned, "What do you want, man?"

"May I have a beer, please," the man said quietly.

The keeper sneered, and slunk off his stool in a bothered manner. He huffed and fussed as he filled a pint glass of yellow beer. He thunked it down hard in front of the man.

"Two pieces, eh"

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, took two and placed them on the bar. The keeper swept them up and shoved them into his pocket.

"You're not from around here," the sour-faced tavernkeep said, statement not question.

"No, I am not. I'm looking for work."

The keeper frowned even more and leaned forward, putting his hands heavily on the bartop, "You havin' a laugh?"

The man looked confused, "No. I am not. I wish to work. I understand you are in need of help here. In the hills."

"Man," the keeper said, "you have no idea what sort of help we need."

"I do, indeed."

"Oh?"

"Yes, you are sick. You need healing."

It took time, but the man, he announced himself as Paeon, managed to convince the local herders he indeed could heal the taurine. The only local herder with any money left was a man named Faldo. Paeon contracted with Faldo for a years' work, if he could actually heal the cattle, they would pay him in money and shares.

Paeon rode into the hills on a horse borrowed from Faldo, a feisty young black filly named Inda. The herder sent three of his men with the foreigner.

Paeon found his first taurine by a small creek bed. The poor best was withered and rotten. The horses shied away from the dying beast, affronted by its smell. Paeon spoke softly into Inda big ears and she calmed down, trusting Paeon.

The man dismounted and walked quietly and calmly to the dying taurine. The beast was emaciated thin, Paeon counted its ribs and followed the outline of its organs. Its great shaggy head swung slowly. Its eyes were orbs of pain.

Paeon stepped towards it, hands held out. The beast tried to back away.

"Shsssh, easy girl," Paeon said, placing his hands on her thin neck. As his flesh touched her's he hissed in pain. He could feel the poisons burning through her body.

It took time, but he convinced her to come out of the nest of roots and weeds. She breast heaved with breathe. The creature was very near death.

Paeon led her a dozen meters from the creek and had her lay down on soft patch of grass. He set to work.

As the day turned to night and sun set, the air turned cold. The taurine shivered and gasped. Without asking, Inda laid down next to the sick taurin, warming her with her body heat. Paeon cried at Inda's compassion.

Faldo's men, however, were cruel. They spoke of nothing but beer and women, and how they could never get enough of either and if they managed to find some, they ruined the opportunity far too quickly to enjoy it.

When they came to understand that Paeon would not join in with their conversations, they ignored him – except on the occasion when they riffled through his bags.

They did not stay long. After three cold nights sitting along sit a quiet intense man, a moody black horse, and a sick, stinking taurine, they left without saying a word or even a backwards glance.

Now that they had left, Paeon began his true work.

**::::**

One year, then two. Five years turned into ten, Paeon worked the hills, healing the cattle, the birds, the rivers, the trees, the insects, the very air itself. He had been a young man when he'd arrived at Hor, young and strong, now, he looked a hundred years old. His face was haggard and hung slack, his frame thinned and burdened by years of hard labor and overtaxing his gifts.

The hills had been cleaned, the taurine were healthy and reproducing. The rivers ran clear, clean. The air no longer smelled of rotten eggs.

Paeon limped into the tavern, now more filled with customers than ever. He saw Faldo, drinking with his men. Paeon limped over to him. The herder looked up, eyeing him carefully, he'd never liked the man.

"Yes?"

"My time here is done. I wish my reimbursement."

"Of course, of course. Come to my office tomorrow and we'll discuss your payment."

"No, Mr Faldo. Our contact is up and I wish my payment now. I will depart before the sun sets."

"I said," Faldo growled, "come to my office _tomorrow_."

Paeon stood up to full height and glared at Faldo. He turned and left. Standing outside the tavern he mounted Inda, now as old as he was, and rode into the hills.

He laid awake that night, talking to Inda and watched the stars. They moved, shifted, showing him a path he must take. It was hard path, one he did not want to take.

The following morning Paeon rode into town, to Faldo's office. He was tired. He failed to see the heavy, dark, ground cars parked around the village centre.

"Mr Faldo …" Paeon began, pushing open his office door. The herder sat behind his desk, smug. Two men in dark armor, with helmets and tinted face-visors, and weapons flanked him.

Paeon looked at the big men, saw the same stars for the night before dancing on their visors. He sighed.

One of the men in dark armor stepped forward, the golden Aquila on his chest plate glittered. He held his hand out, palm forward, "Psyker, come with me. Cause no trouble, and you'll receive none."

From behind the desk Faldo smirked like a cat and said, "Paeon, you are under arrest for stealing my horse."

The healer looked at the herder, sadly, pityingly.

He could not have been more wrong.

Faldo continued, "Like you said yesterday, our contract is terminated. When you left town yesterday with my horse I was forced to call the enforcers. Once I explained your … _gift_ … to them, they sent this man, a Marshall of the Adeptus Arbites."

With a glance from the man with the golden double-headed eagle on the chest plate, the other arbiter grabbed Faldo round the neck, putting him in a crippling choke hold, and hauled him roughly out of his seat. The herder squawked, "What are you doing?! Get off me!"

The arbiter did not respond, except to drag him out of the office, kicking and screaming.

The marshall lifted his visor and looked at Paeon. Eye to eye. Paeon returned the look. Eye to eye.

The arbiter nodded to the door. Paeon turned and walked out of the building.

A dozen more black armored arbiters waited for them outside Faldo's office. Grim, dark figures, like death. Faldo waited by the building wall, nervous and wringing his hands.

The arbite marshal spoke, "Faldo, for failure to report a rogue pskyer you are to be punished." The man waved his hand and the dozen officers stepped into a line. They pumped their shotguns and with a short shout from one, they fired in unison.

By instinct Paeon looked at Faldo's shattered remains; even he could not help him.

"Pysker, come," the marshal said softly, leading Paeon into the one of the ground cars, "The Blackships await you."

Before he climbed aboard he looked back at Inda. His old mare looked back at him, he would miss her greatly. He clicked his tongue and tipped his head south, the old horse whined once and turned, trotting softly into the purified hills.


End file.
